


Misfire

by firelord65



Series: Fecky's Whumptober Oneshots [5]
Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Missions Gone Wrong, On the Run, The Showstopper (Hitman), Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26850208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelord65/pseuds/firelord65
Summary: Things don't go to plan in Paris. That's alright. Forty-Seven will just have to re-adjust so he doesn't leave the job half-done.
Series: Fecky's Whumptober Oneshots [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950469
Kudos: 9
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Misfire

**Author's Note:**

> Been really enjoying doing these little snippets for Whumptober. Daniel wanted to see if I could do a Hitman level one, so I was happy to oblige. And then my grammar brain cried every time that I had to start a sentence with "47" XD

The fire alarm wailing was piercing. One of the partygoers must have hit it when they saw the private guards roaming with weapons drawn; Or perhaps the serving staff had after they had found a body in the chest freezer instead of a side of pork. Either way, the Sanguine fashion show was certainly over.

A lesser man might have given up now. Novikov and Margolis had well over a dozen armed guards each to protect their interests. That wasn't counting the event security for the fashion show. Somewhere around forty firearms were roaming around currently with safeties off by 47's best estimate.

But the job wasn't done. Sure, Novikov had been dealt with after some simple emetic poison dipped into his signature cocktail. But Dalia was another story, what with her ivory tower elites tucked away with her in the upper levels. A job half done was a job not done at all as far as the ICA was concerned.

Forty-Seven bided his time tucked in the shadows behind a rack of over-designed dresses. His ears rang and the starched collar of his stolen waiter's outfit stuck into his neck. But he was a patient man. These tiny nuisances were just distractions.

And so the alarms wailed. And so the guards scurried about in their overturned anthill, searching in vain for a rogue member of the waitstaff who did not belong. Forty-Seven had _just_ missed incapacitating one of the stylists in the back room he was tucked away in now. The pipe he'd thrown at the man's retreating form had gone wide, slamming instead into the wall. Peering through the gowns that obscured him, 47 frowned. Actually, _he_ might have been the one to cause the alarm to go off. A tiny red box was next to the door and there appeared to be fragments of the plastic casing on the ground below. Oops.

Regardless, the guards had been alerted. There was no going back and fixing that fact. The minutes were ticking on with no clear sign of anything changing. Forty-Seven would have to make do with the situation as it was.

Dragging himself back to his full stature, he eased his way out of the back room. There was a staircase just a few meters down the hall that went up to the A/V section. Diana had been fortunate enough to uncover the details of the event prior to the mission starting. At least he wasn't going in totally blind.

The hallway was stuffed with racks of garment bags and hastily-stacked stage gear boxes. Forty-Seven was grateful for the clutter as a pair of black-suited guards swept through looking for him. He could hear them speaking in their earpieces, confident that they would be able to seek out the "troublemaker." Considering for a moment whether he would be able to take one of them out with another seeing, 47 nearly missed the arrival of one of the black and yellow jacketed security guards.

As the man's head twisted to follow him, 47 hurried into the stairwell and shut the door behind him. He could hear the man calling out through the thick door. The guard was right on his tail. "Sir! I'm not going to ask again!" he called as he stepped through the open door.

Forty-Seven let loose his cocked arm and heard the satisfying _crack_ of ceramic on skull. The guard dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. The door snapped shut behind him. It took less than a second altogether. His lip curled in a rare, wry smile. This changed things significantly. Working quickly, 47 dragged the man's unconscious body to a nearby wardrobe. After no more than a minute or so, a black and yellow jacket joined the fray. No one would notice the barcode that didn't belong under the band of his baseball cap.


End file.
